Howard Hughes Books

“A Reclusive Invitation by Stewart Stafford

In a mansion crouched at the forest's edge,
Gargoyles perched on a Jericho hedge,
Lived Samuel Keane, with millions at least,
Welcomed the locals to his Christmas feast.

Self-imposed exile of wealth's solitary scene,
On that evening, time for connection pristine,
An alabaster white suit in a chessboard hall;
Legions of armour and battle scars to recall.

"Come, gather round, let camaraderie ignite!
On Christmas Eve, a dream-come-true night!"
Perkins, the grey butler, in reluctant festive red,
Gestured them toward Keane's banquet spread.

Their gracious host took his place at the end,
A throne chair helped into place with a bend,
Beaming, he clapped and food was brought in,
To gasps and applause at the goblets of gin.

A succulent feast at a baronial ball;
Roasted goose, boar, a tall glass highball,
Stories grew taller, just like each drink,
Songs and jests sent them over the brink.

Enjoyment and melody's atmosphere bright,
Fleeting warmth shared in lush candlelight.
Dawn looms, Les Misérables adore company:
"Why does hangover guilt crave chablis?"

A Father Christmas event once a year,
Guests departed, a loud triple cheer,
A fading smile of a host so grand,
Adrift, nothing elaborate planned.

The fireworks faded, the last ember died,
Keane shut his mansion with secrets inside.
A portcullis closed slowly on a seasonal high,
A gothic arch door shut 'neath morning star sky.

© 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford